


A Cesspool of Pure Dread

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dammit Westfahl, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Horror, Humor, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow doesn't have time for his teammates' idiocy on STRIKE missions.</p><p>Or ghosts.  He doesn't have time for ghosts either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cesspool of Pure Dread

Murphy taps his hands against the controls in rhythm. “ _Opened the lid and shook his fist, and said, ‘Vhatever happened to my Transylvania Twist?’_ ”

“Murphy,” says Rumlow.

“ _It’s now the Mash! It’s now the Monster Mash! The Monster Mash! And it’s a graveyard smash! It’s now the Mash, and it caught on—_ ”

“Murphy, I will throw you out of the jet.”

Murphy frowns. He turns to pout at Rumlow, seemingly oblivious to the Quinjet he’s meant to be steering. Thank God for autopilot. “But boss, it’s Halloween!”

“It’s a mission,” Rumlow says. Honestly, Murphy should be thankful he’s piloting them to Bumfuck Island instead of staying at his apartment, getting his door pelted with eggs because he’d be stupid enough to try and hand out vegan candies to a bunch of snot-nosed brats. “So get your head in the game. And isn’t this supposed to be a religious holiday for you anyway?” Maybe he can Catholic-guilt the man into shutting his mouth.

“ _¿Día de los muertos?_ You _can_ start celebrating on the thirty-first, but I tend to start on the first of November. Most Americans call that All Saints Day, and then the second All Souls Day, but yeah. I’ll be going to Mass when we get back, and usually there’s a vigil the night before at my church, but since we’re out here I just set up the altar and left out the _ofrenda_ at my place before we left, and I brought _calaveras_ —sugar skulls—for us to share after the mission’s done, and I figured I could do prayers tonight—”

So much for shutting his mouth. “Murphy, just fly the plane.”

Murphy looks back at what he’s meant to be doing, but he’s still rambling on about traditional songs he wants to teach them, and Rumlow’s patience is threatening to snap.

“I’m gonna take a leak,” he mutters, not caring if Murphy hears. The kid can speak to dead air for all Rumlow cares.

He steps away from the cockpit and just dodges a collision with Westfahl, who’s up and flailing around. Rumlow thinks he’s having a seizure until he catches sight of the man’s earbuds and realizes that the idiot’s trying to do “Thriller” in the limited space the jet allows.

Rumlow slaps him across the back of his head. “Dammit, Westfahl, sit your ass back down!”

“Told you he wouldn’t go for the bitch slap,” Mercer says, extending her hand to Rollins. “Pay up.”

Grumbling, Rollins digs through his pockets.

In his own seat, the Winter Soldier watches the others. He says nothing.

Rumlow’s wondering if he can spend the rest of the flight hiding in the head from this ragtag group of idiots when Rollins lifts his hand and the flask in it catches Rumlow’s eye.

Well. Maybe he can spend some time bonding with his team after all.

*

Candy corn-flavored vodka. Fucking Rollins brought _candy corn-flavored vodka_.

“I didn’t mean to,” Rollins protests, dodging Rumlow’s fist. “I was running late and I grabbed the closest bottle to the counter. I forgot they’d have all the gimmicky shit out this week.”

“You still offered it to me after tasting it.” There’s no way that flask wasn’t offered in malice. Or at least in the spirit of petty dickery. He manages to connect a blow with Rollins’s abdomen and smirks when his second in command doubles over.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Mercer says. “Not like it’ll take much of that crap to get you drunk anyway, Commander. Besides, you can be back here with the shitty vodka or up there listening to Murphy explain why _Nosferatu_ is the quintessential horror film. Which sounds worse?”

Murphy’s still singing to himself. He’s switched out “Monster Mash” for “The Ghost of John” now.

So much for getting away from the usual Halloween idiocy by volunteering for this mission.

The mission, at least, should be simple enough.

Their destination is Poveglia Island, situated in a lagoon in Northern Italy. It had once been inhabited, but any residents had left in the sixties. An abandoned island, buildings and all, had seemed the perfect place for HYDRA to conduct research. And so they had for some length of time not specified in the mission dossier. But the researchers had suddenly fled—the dossier referred to only ‘irreconcilable difficulties’—leaving their equipment and records behind. All the STRIKE team has to do is recover what they can carry and destroy what they can’t.

Rumlow has no damn clue why the asset’s a part of this mission, unless they already thawed him out for something else and figured they might as well get the most mileage from him that they could. That, or they thought he’d be especially skilled at destroying things.

They can’t land the Quinjet on the island itself. Poveglia’s in a lagoon, not isolated in the middle of the sea, so the risk of being seen is too high. Nor can they land just outside of the lagoon waters either; Poveglia’s a part of Venice, so it isn’t as if there’s much place to hide a jet in the canals.

Instead, Murphy sets down in a secluded area outside of Venice so they can hike to the awaiting boat.

“What did they say’s wrong with this place?” Murphy asks. He’s a SHIELD level four, but only a HYDRA level two. The kid doesn’t have the security clearance to even know their destination’s name. Hell, as far as Murphy knows, the asset’s just a slow, antisocial teammate who won’t disclose anything but his call sign.

Without turning his head, Rollins meets Rumlow’s eye. The agreement is unspoken between them: straight faces.

“They say this place was a dumping ground for mafia bodies,” Rollins begins.

“They didn’t take kindly to the presence of others,” Rumlow adds. “Of course, HYDRA isn’t so easily intimidated.”

“So that’s when the don turned to the black arts.”

Rumlow curses internally. Rollins, to his credit, says it straight-faced and casual, but that’s still a hell of a leap to take things and keep their credibility, even where Murphy’s concerned.

“So they say,” Rumlow recovers. “I’m not so sure. Why claim evil spirits when it could be mafiosos wearing skinned faces as masks?”

He casts a glance back. Murphy’s wide-eyed, but he looks more anticipatory than traumatized. Like he’s in line for a haunted house. And Westfahl has his damn earbuds back in, not even listening.

Maybe things will change once they’re on the island. The power of suggestion can do a hell of a lot.

The vessel waiting for them is barely larger than a speedboat. Rumlow had been hoping for something with a cabin so he could lie down in transit, but so much for that. At least they won’t have to carry much back with them.

Mercer steers. They don’t have lights for this, save for the occasional gleam of moonlight off the Soldier’s arm.

Westfahl tries howling along to “Werewolves of London,” until Rollins threatens to throw him overboard. Most of the ride passes in silence save for the water lapping against the sides of the boat. Rumlow can feel rain drizzling on his face, down his collar. Great.

“Coming up on the island now,” Mercer mutters. Rumlow looks over the prow of the boat. Silhouetted against the moonlight, he can make out a bell tower.

That’s when Murphy gasps. “Poveglia.”

Rumlow turns to stare. He can’t make out much of the man’s face in the dark, but he’s probably staring in shock. Seems like a Murphy thing to do.

“You know this place?” Rollins asks.

“You _don’t_?” Yeah, definitely wide-eyed. And probably gaping too. “It’s the most haunted island in the entire world!”

“How do they quantify that?” Mercer asks, but Murphy doesn’t seem to hear her, lost in his own stupidity.

“It was used to quarantine plague victims.” Murphy’s voice is hushed, awe-struck. “During two separate outbreaks, I think. Maybe three. Criminals were executed here, drowned in the waters around the island. And in the 1920s, they built a mental hospital. The chief doctor performed experimental surgeries on his patients. Like lobotomies: a ice pick through the eye socket and into the brain. Then the ghosts of his victims drove him mad and he threw himself off that tower.” Murphy points. “They say over a hundred thousand people died on Poveglia. They say half the soil that formed the island is human ash.”

“Murphy.” Rumlow rubs a hand against his temple. “How the hell could the ashes _form_ the island if it was already there when they burned people on it?”

“In the sixties, the government tried to auction off the island. There was a family who wanted to farm it.” Rumlow catches a glimpse of Murphy’s face in the moonlight and as expected, he looks dumb as a cow. “They left after one night and wouldn’t tell anyone what happened. But their daughter had fourteen stitches in her face. I saw an episode of _Ghost Adventures_ about this place.”

“There’s a credible source,” Rollins mutters.

“It’s serious! One of ghost hunters got possessed! There’s a whole field where you can see skeletons sticking out of the dirt!”

“Murphy.” It’s Mercer’s voice now. “Remember that mission in Chiapas when you insisted you saw a chupacabra in the supply shed?”

“It was using the jigsaw!”

“Murphy.” Rumlow holds in a sigh. “Shut the fuck up.”

By some small miracle, Murphy stops talking. He’s not silent, though, rooting around in his pack. Rollins catches Rumlow’s eye, and Rumlow can tell they’re both having the same thought: _What do you wanna bet he brought holy water and garlic?_

Instead, Rumlow hears the quiet clinking of metal. Necklaces, it sounds like.

“I have my rosary,” Murphy’s muttering. “I can wear that. It’s okay when the threat’s big enough. Winter, you take my Saint Michael medal.” 

And Winter actually leans forward, letting Murphy pull the necklace over his head.

“Here.” Murphy thrusts something at Mercer. “That’s Saint Christopher. He ensures safe travel. Westfahl—dammit Westfahl, are you listening?—you take Saint Benedict.”

“How many of those do you have?” Rumlow demands. Fantastic. At least if any of them ever die in the field, Murphy can deliver the last rites.

“Just the three. My _abuela_ gave me Saint Christopher when I went off to college. My mom got me the other two when I first went into the field.” Murphy’s talking at a hundred miles an hour. “But that’s all I’ve got. You and Jack need something.”

“Like hell we do—” Rumlow begins, but Murphy’s already turned away.

“Westfahl!” he’s saying. “Westfahl!” And he yanks out Westfahl’s earbuds like he’s trying to start a lawn mower.

“Ow!” Westfahl flails, clanking into the asset’s arm. “What the hell? I was in the middle of ‘Hotel California,’ jackass!”

“Let me see your pack,” Murphy demands, already tugging at the straps.

“What? Why?”

“Because you always save the napkins and ketchup packets and stuff whenever you get a burger.” Murphy’s practically wrestling with Westfahl now.

“Ketchup packets?” Rollins asks. “We’re gonna ward off the spirits of the damned with _ketchup packets_?”

“No.” Murphy’s panting and digging through the pack. “With salt.”

“What?”

Murphy grabs hold of something—presumably a little salt packet—and starts muttering in Spanish. Must be a prayer. “Boss.” He raises his head, wild-eyed. “Open your mouth.”

“Like hell.”

“It’s a minor exorcism rite,” Murphy explains, as though that’s going to make Rumlow any more receptive. “I don’t know the prayers, but given the circumstances, I don’t think that matters.”

“Murphy, I’ll let you know when I start puking up soup and spinning my head around.”

“It protects you from evil spirits!” Murphy begs. “Please!”

“You try and pour salt in my face, and I’ll kick your ass.”

“It’s just a pinch!” Murphy sounds on the verge of tears. “ _Please_!”

“Just do it so he’ll shut up,” Mercer says.

And that’s how Rumlow and Rollins end up letting Murphy put salt in their mouths and pray over them like they’re on their deathbeds. He insists on making the sign of the cross on everyone’s forehead too, and thankfully doesn’t try to bless the water around them and then douse them all in it.

“There.” Rumlow knocks Murphy’s hand away from his head. “Happy now?”

Murphy nods, settling back. Just like that, his breathing goes steady and he shuts up. Like a kid who’s been given his favorite blanket.

“Great.” Rumlow rolls his eyes.

Mercer steers them to a small concrete canal where they dock.

“They had their experiments set up across the island,” Rumlow says. “Rollins, you’re with me. We’re clearing out the old hospital. Mercer, Westfahl, you two get the bell tower. Asset, take Murphy and make sure there’s no equipment in the fields.”

“That’s where they burned the dead,” Murphy mutters, crossing himself.

“Either clear out the field or you’ll join them,” Rumlow snaps, feeling the start of a headache behind his eyes. “Once you’re done, we meet at the hospital.” The asset just nods. And with that, they haul themselves out of the boat and split into their teams.

*

“How the hell did he ever end up in SHIELD?” Rollins shakes his head, stuffing a sheaf of papers into his pack. “Who looked at _that_ and said, oh yeah, this. This is what our secretive intelligence organization needs.”

“He’s supposed to be a savant when it comes to code breaking.” That was what HYDRA had wanted with Murphy: his skills at encryption to help them better conceal their operations. It’s just that Rumlow has no idea why HYDRA also wanted him for field work.

The wind picks up outside, sending the debris in the room skittering across the floor. There are no windows left in the hospital to speak of, and Rumlow’s pretty sure the only thing holding the building up is the scaffolding around it. He wouldn’t be surprised if HYDRA’s researchers had demanded a new placement for fear of the roof crashing down on their heads.

Rumlow gives the equipment they’ve broken down one last kick, fully mixing it in with the leaves, broken tiles, and rotting plaster that coats the floor of the room. No one’s going to give it a second look. Not that many people coming to the island seem interested in exploring anyway; the walls are covered with graffiti, and Rumlow figures the only people who bother to going here are teenagers looking for kicks.

“Twenty bucks says the asset hauls him back screaming and crying,” Rollins says.

“In English or Spanish?”

“Both.”

Rumlow’s considering it when something cold grazes his face.

He turns his head. Nothing.

A draft, then. Not surprising in a place like this. “The asset wouldn’t let him scream,” Rumlow says. “He’d knock him out and drag him back unconscious.”

“So it’s a bet?”

Rumlow feels it again, this time on the other on the side of his face. He steps back, wiping at his skin. “You feel anything?”

“Yeah, the rain.” Rollins snorts. “Nothing to stop it from blowing right in. Trying to weasel out of making a bet?”

“You’re on.” Rumlow shrugs his onto his shoulders. “Now let’s wait for you to lose in one of the interior rooms, all right?”

*

Mercer and Westfahl are the first ones back, and Westfahl’s making a big production of limping in.

“Report,” Rumlow says to Mercer, ignoring Westfahl’s bitching as he lowers himself to the floor.

Mercer’s hair hangs limp around her face. The rain’s coming down hard, both outside and through the ceiling. “The tower’s cleared out,” she says. “We recovered some notebooks, but they’re waterlogged and probably illegible. Westfahl slipped on the ladder and might have broken his ass, but the place is clean.”

“You should have filmed it for us,” Rollins says.

Mercer shrugs, setting her pack down on the floor. “If my hands hadn’t been full of mildewed notes, I would have.”

It’s another fifteen minutes before Murphy and the asset arrive, and in that time it starts storming in earnest. “We can’t leave until this stops,” Mercer says. “No way can I steer the boat through this without light.”

“Ten bucks says Murphy cries himself to sleep,” Westfahl mutters.

But when they finally reach the rendezvous, Murphy looks downright giddy.

“It’s just like it was on TV!” He’s shaking with energy, almost bouncing back up once he bends to put his pack on the floor. “We saw the bridge and the bones coming up through the dirt and everything! We didn’t see any ghosts, but I heard footsteps when Winter wasn’t even moving!”

Rumlow ignores him, turning his gaze to the asset.

“Area cleared,” the asset reports. “All remaining equipment dismantled and buried. No witnesses or spectral apparitions.”

Spectral apparitions. Fantastic. The Secretary’s going to tear Rumlow a new one if the asset starts going on about spectral apparitions in his mission report. He makes a note to throw Murphy out of the boat on the way home.

“You were almost pissing yourself just _seeing_ this place.” Rollins raises a brow, staring at Murphy. “What happened?”

“Well, now we’re protected.” Murphy’s unzipping his pack. If he starts passing sugar skulls around, Rumlow’s going to throw his right back at the kid’s head. “And if we’re all safe, then it’s kind of like being in a haunted house, isn’t it? One of the fun ones. Except I should still offer up a rosary for the souls here. Anyway, I brought candy!”

“I’m not eating your homemade vegan crap.” Westfahl tries to ease himself down on his pack as though it’ll serve as some kind of cushion, but he only succeeds in parking his ass right on one of the buckles. He yelps and loses his balance, ending up sprawled on the asset’s lap.

“It’s not homemade,” Murphy says, oblivious. “There’s all kinds of candy that doesn’t have any animal products! Most dark chocolates, Dum Dums, Jujyfruits, lemon drops, Swedish fish, Pixi Stix, Smarties, Sweet Tarts, gobstoppers, Sour Patch Kids—”

“If you recite a list of every vegan candy in your pack,” Rumlow warns, “then I’m going to cram them down your throat. Packaging and all.”

Murphy pouts for a second. Then he looks back into his bag and that damn smile lights up his face all over again. “Hey, Winter! Here’s the stuff I was telling you about.” He pulls a Tupperware full of what appears to be tar out of his pack. “Let me get the chips.”

“The hell is that?” Rumlow doesn’t kick the container out of Murphy’s hand only because he doesn’t want to risk touching the stuff.

“Black bean hummus,” Murphy says. “It’s festive. And I have some pita chips shaped like ghosts!”

“I don’t even have words for you anymore,” Rollins mutters.

“You’re not giving the asset that crap.” Rumlow sits between them just to be sure. “It’ll fuck up his stomach.”

“But boss—”

“If you want to argue,” Rumlow says, “I’ll break your nose, draw a pentagram in the blood, and summon Satan himself.”

“The pentagram’s a Wiccan symbol too,” Murphy protests. “The points represent the elements.”

Rumlow’s fist collides with Murphy’s face.

“Ow!”

*

Around the second hour of the storm, Rumlow had to make the call that they’d spend the night.

Murphy had cheered at the announcement, throwing his hands over his head. “Scary story time!”

Now Murphy’s sporting a bloody lip in addition to a bruised nose. But it hasn’t stopped him from rambling ghost stories at anyone who’ll listen. Which is mostly just the asset. Murphy’s filled the time with nonsense about chupacabras and vampires and tailypos and ghosts, and were it not for Rollins’s flask and the beers in Mercer’s pack, Murphy would be dead right now.

“My _abuela_ used to tell me stories about _El Cuco_ when I visited her as a kid,” Murphy’s saying. “Or sometimes if I acted up at home, my mom would threaten to call her so she could tell _El Cuco_ I was misbehaving.”

The asset stares blankly in Murphy’s general direction. Rumlow screws the top back on the beer bottle and rolls it to Rollins. There’s not nearly enough beer to go around, not with Murphy all worked up like this, so they’re reduced to taking a drink and passing the bottle. Murphy and the asset don’t get any. Neither does Westfahl. Rumlow’s not going to risk the idiot breaking one of the few bottles they have.

The floor’s tilted—the foundations must be cracking—so the bottle rolls easily to Rollins.

“ _El Cuco_ comes for bad children,” Murphy continues. “He grabs them and carries them away. No one’s sure what happens to the kids once _El Cuco_ has them, but the ones he gets never, ever come back. He has a head like a jack-o-lantern, but pitch black inside. And long, sharp, dirty nails. My _abuela_ said you’d know if he was coming for you because you’d hear his nails scratching at your floor.”

Murphy pauses for dramatic effect. Of course there’s scratching in the distance because they’re on an island probably full of rats and in a building held together by luck and hope.

Mercer has the bottle now, and she rolls it back to Rumlow.

“There’s a song about _El Cuco_.” And then, before Rumlow can tell Murphy he’ll be shot if he sings, the kid’s already singing, low and somber. “ _Duermete niño, duermete ya…que viene el cuco y te comerá. Sleep child, sleep now...or else the cuco comes to eat you._ ”

“How’s it gonna eat you if it has a pumpkin for a head?” Rollins asks.

“You don’t question that sort of thing when you’re five,” Murphy says. His black bean hummus is still sitting on his lap, mostly untouched.

Rumlow replaces the lid on the beer again and sets it on the floor. It rolls downhill to Mercer.

To Mercer.

“Hey!” Rollins straightens up. “Don’t skip me.”

“It should have rolled to you.” Rumlow frowns, staring at the bottle. “The floor shifted.”

“Sure. Or you got drunk off of, what, half a beer?”

“It’s the foundations, jackass.” His knees creak as he stands up, and Rumlow winces. “You’d think HYDRA would have made sure this place wasn’t on the verge of collapse before they set up camp. I’m going to see if any of the other rooms look more stable to sleep in.” He’d rather not wake up to find himself half-buried in rubble.

“Don’t get lost,” Murphy says.

Rumlow just stares.

“I saw a movie this summer,” Murphy mutters, flushing. “About these ghost hunters in a haunted asylum. And the hallways kept rearranging to keep them trapped.”

“Murphy, he can’t get lost.” Mercer takes another sip of the beer before she rolls it to Rollins. “Not with you running your mouth.”

It’s a fruitless search. Most of the floors are in just as bad of a shape, and those that aren’t are also external rooms, drenched with water from the storm outside. Well, Rumlow reasons, at least the floor should hold for one more night. Besides, if the building starts to collapse, they’ll surely wake up.

He turns the corner back to their makeshift camp.

And finds himself staring down a dark hallway, long enough that his flashlight doesn’t illuminate the end.

Rumlow’s not proud to admit that his heart hammers in his chest for a few beats before reality ensues and he realizes he just got himself turned around. He can still hear Murphy’s voice a ways behind him. Along with something else. A crunching against floor. Footsteps.

He whirls around. There’s a white shape in the hall, fluttering with the drafts, and Rumlow reacts on instinct, swinging out with the flashlight and colliding into the thing’s head.

“Fucking ow! Christ!”

Rumlow stares at the thing now sprawled on the floor. “Dammit, Westfahl, what the hell are you playing at?”

He’s in a bed sheet. A white bed sheet with eyeholes. Like a goddamn Charlie Brown cartoon.

“It was just a joke!”

“I ought to kick your ass.”

“I think you already broke it again,” Westfahl whines. “And gave me a concussion.”

“You deserve worse.” He kicks at Westfahl until the man stumbles back to his feet.

When they return to the room, the asset’s chewing on something and holding Murphy’s hummus Tupperware in his flesh hand. “This is my ghoul-camole,” Murphy’s saying, holding up another container full of green glop. “You might not like it ‘cause it’s pretty spicy, but just try it, okay? You can have more of my hummus to get the taste out of your mouth if you don’t like—”

“Murphy,” Rumlow barks. “Put that shit up. Everyone get your bedroll laid out. Lights out in five.”

They’ve just shut off the flashlights when it happens. Rumlow lays his head against the thin pillow and there’s a resounding crash. He can feel the reverberations through his body.

He’s up in an instant, flashlight waving across the room. Everyone else is doing the same. Rumlow’s temporarily blinded when their lights converge on the asset’s arm. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t think it came from here,” Rollins says. “Sounded like it was closer to the bell tower.”

“The mad doctor,” Murphy whispers. Rumlow doesn’t need to look to know that he’s making the sign of the cross again.

“Murphy, shut the fuck up. It’s probably an animal. Or a part of the building giving way in the storm. Asset.”

The asset’s eyes flick to him. In the dark, there’s no light to them, making them look like empty voids in his face. Rumlow’s uncomfortably reminded of Murphy’s talk about lobotomies.

“You go investigate. Radio me if there’s any sign of disturbance or trespassers. If you don’t find anything, just come back here and sleep, got it?”

The asset nods.

*

Rumlow can’t move.

It’s a struggle to even open his eyes; there’s dust everywhere, bits of debris, and it stings as bad as mace when he tries to look around.

He can barely turn his head. He can’t breathe at all.

There’s wreckage. Everywhere his watering eyes can see, wreckage. It’s pressing down on his chest, forcing the breath out of him and making it impossible for him to call out. It’s so hot.

There’s something in the corner of his eye. Something besides stone, and he scrapes the skin away from his face and neck as he tries to force himself to turn and see it.

Rollins. Pinned under rubble, just the same as Rumlow. There’s blood pooling around his head, and more of it dried on his nose and lips. His eyes are glazed and lifeless.

Rumlow can’t scream. It’s getting hotter and hotter, and he doesn’t know if Murphy mentioned the souls of the damned, but that’s all he can think of now.

There’s a sound. The wreckage above him shifts.

Rumlow wrenches his head back and something in his neck snaps as he does. There’s a flare of white hot pain into his skull and down his back, blinding him.

When Rumlow’s vision clears, the Winter Soldier is standing above him.

 _Help me_ , he tries to say. _Save me_.

But all that comes out is “hel...” and then the asset’s boot finds Rumlow’s throat, pressing down as though hell is precisely where the asset intends to send him. Rumlow can only shut his eyes and wait.

*

There’s a ghost over Rumlow. He shouts, swinging his fist, and he feels his knuckles crack, clanging against the metal that must be under that white sheet.

He tugs the sheet away to find the asset’s blank eyes staring back at him.

“Who the fuck came up with this?” Rumlow demands, cradling in his hand. Whoever it was is getting a beer bottle shoved up their ass, broad end first.

No one speaks. Every last one of them save for the asset isn’t even trying to conceal a smirk.

“I’ll write up every last one of you for insubordination,” he warns.

That only gets them all protesting their innocence.

“Soldier.” Rumlow is not in the mood for this. Not this early in the goddamn morning. “Who told you to put on the sheet?”

“The bird,” the asset answers, flat as ever.

“What are you talking about?”

“The bird,” the asset says. “I didn’t report him because animals are not trespassers. He had dark eyes and a long white beak. He told me that I should cover my face. That it could keep me from falling ill.”

Rumlow only stares.

“Plague doctors.” Murphy’s voice is hushed. “They wore beaked masks full of herbs. Thought it would filter out disease.”

“You know what?” Fuck wrapping his hand. Fuck everything. “Let’s just go.”

No one objects.

**Author's Note:**

> Poveglia is a [real island](http://mentalfloss.com/article/24658/strange-geographies-happy-haunted-island-poveglia) featured on the TV show _Ghost Adventures._ The title of this story is how the island was described by the show's host.
> 
> The songs Murphy sings in celebration of Halloween are Bobby Pickett's [Monster Mash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tHyRQOdqf0) and the American folk song [The Ghost of John.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phbKMfkt18g)
> 
> Murphy's [Halloween hummus](http://blog.fatfreevegan.com/2008/10/spooky-black-bean-hummus.html) and [ghoulcamole](http://www.allysonkramer.com/2010/10/ghastly-tortilla-chips-ghoul-camole/) are real recipes.
> 
> The movie Murphy's referring to is the 2011 film [_Grave Encounters_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1703199/).
> 
> [Plague doctors](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plague_doctor), including those leading the quarantined to Poveglia, did sometimes wear beaked masks.


End file.
